My Visual Diary, is an integral part of who I am. I record in it, stow found objects, sketch ideas, write lines overheard on the train, snatches of songs, and map out ideas. Its my creative life blood, my thought space, where I create, think, feel and articulate my visual repertoire . Varying sizes, paper thicknesses and surfaces add variety. At the moment I am using a rather cumbersome one, distributed free by a VU teacher, from an abandoned stock-pile in a cupboard. Its large in size, and needs to be transported in its own bag. I now draw in a horizontal rather than vertical format. I love the crispness of its sheets, the rustle of its pages, and the inviting, cool expanse, of white paper in which to unleash my creative energies. One page flows into another, many are filled in rapid succession, soon a fleeting image is captured and I am able to move onto the next feast of mark making.
Sporadically, I look back at the previous pages work, scarcely able to believe I have created such spontaneous imagery. My small diary was carted around eastern Europe, in 2013, and saved me from many an argument with a recalcitrant daughter. I would put my head down, and draw and paint in my tiny diary, easing the barbs of the day and removing any residual animosity. For a period of quiet reflection, wherever we were I would use my diary, choosing from the accompanying small selection of tools, and I would attempt to draw what I saw,record it in my visual diary and commit it to memory. It became my escape, my release and my solace when the constant travelling became exhausting, and the camaraderie of the journey a little stretched. Bit like my current trajectory at VU.
Spinning wheels , sweat soaked bodies , yelps of pain . I am at the gym . Early morning disciples of fitness , we stagger blindly towards the garishly lit beacon , on the suburban side street . A torturous procession of exercises awaits us . Grinding , relentless , painful , and methodical . We push our reluctant body through weaves , turns , runs , squats, and stretches . Its painful , its boring , its becomes instinctive . Our bodies baulk , stop , evade and refuse to co-operate always taking the easy way out like a naughty child . We persist , pushing , pulling , pummelling and following our exercises by route .
Early morning starts , car refusing to start , its dark , lonely , solitary , and daunting on the empty morning streets . We cajole our lacklustre frames , into some semblance of fitness . The grungy , down at heel exercise mecca in gritty inner city St Kilda , becomes the backdrop to our trials , tests , and triumphs . The desk jockeys become our early morning friends , the pumping music a mask to our ineptitude . Why do we persist ? Its an inane reaction to ageing , an antidote to poor health , and a promise of nirvana that lies waiting at the end of all our toil , that encourages us and binds us to the path of semi acceptable fitness .